


The Violin Still Plays

by AAluminium



Category: American History - Fandom, American Revolution RPF, Revolution - Fandom, War For Independence - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen, Other, Philosophy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 09:07:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15167339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AAluminium/pseuds/AAluminium
Summary: The orbs swiveled to the calendar on the wall and then averted back to Patsy’s pale face with silent rebuke in them: she hadn’t yet torn off the sheet with the previous date. Was he unconscious?





	The Violin Still Plays

The Violin Still Plays

Their country has surmounted a plethora of hindrances and impediments on its way to independence. It has faced wars and deprivations; it has been abased and criticized; other governments have pushed their noses into the affairs they do not even have the slightest clue about, and Great Britain, haughty and imperious, has tried to yoke the erstwhile colonies to haul them back. Come to think of it, the newly formed United States of America have made a great stride through the course of fifty years! They drew up the eminent Declaration of Independence; they created their own Constitution; they established the government with well-operating two-party system; they purchased a huge piece of territory and expanded the domain thus planning to send an expedition to the unexplored areas – it was an achievement beyond any comparison, and if there were any ill-wishers left, one could be sure: whatever they said, they did it out of envy. 

Who wouldn’t be jealous, Thomas Jefferson thought lying in his bed and staring at the desk with books, drafts and letters piled upon it. Who wouldn’t be jealous to realize how much a country can reach in practically no time, developing from a loose knot of disjointed colonies into a solid union able to speak up, express the will of the people and spread the word across the world. Jefferson was one of the founders; he did participate in creating the nation and seeing it in bloom replenished him with a new set of feelings. First, he was proud; albeit it was a treacherous path full of traps, they had managed to give this ship of a new government the right direction. They knew where they were going, and what ideals they pursued; declared in the Declaration of Independence and then mentioned in the Constitution, proclaimed by the President of the United States, the primary, fundamental notions were sustained not only by the authorities, but by the people themselves, and Jefferson was elated to comprehend the fact he made his own contribution to the cause of revolution. 

That’s why the 4th of July was such a significant date to him. On the one hand, it reminded him of the struggle they had to get involved into in order to gain freedom they were sure they deserved, but on the other hand, it was the first time they dared announce their independence. The founders refused to submit to the British Crown – and, in the fiftieth time, were to celebrate it. Not many survived to share the holiday with the newborn nation; Thomas himself felt he was about to depart from this mortal vale and to join the majority – and wondered if the heavens were merciful enough to let him catch a glimpse of the dawn on July 4. 

Patsy took care of her father, devotedly staying by his side: no letter reached Jefferson without her knowing; not a single piece of news could get to him without her control – she decided who was allowed to visit her parent on the deathbed, and who was to be turned down. Her heart was being avulsed; Patsy, close to her father, had a tough time: not only was she to lose her dear parent for good, but also she had to cope with the sorrow and grief others expressed along with condolences. 

“Is it the Fourth?” came a feeble voice, and a bony hand grabbed the sheets in a weak attempt to get up. “Is it..?” 

His hazel eyes, once bright, vivid and sly, were now enshrouded in a milky haze – old and frail, Jefferson kept the slightest resemblance to what he looked like a few years ago. The orbs swiveled to the calendar on the wall and then averted back to Patsy’s pale face with silent rebuke in them: she hadn’t yet torn off the sheet with the previous date. Was he unconscious? He could no longer tell the difference between sleep and reality; the date didn’t seem to change – it was all and the same day, and it seemed nearly endless. 

“Patsy,” he murmured, his dry lips cracked, “Patsy, is it the Fourth?” he insisted again. 

The woman sighed and shook her head, her fingers tucking in the blanket while the doctor was preparing another potion fruitlessly hoping to prolong the life of one of the most powerful politicians. 

“When is it?” 

“In a week,” she lied, trying to distract him by a recently received epistle from John Adams. “In a week, father… Would you like me to read it?” 

He shook his hoary head – his strength was on the wane, and he was barely able to keep his eyes open. A moment longer, and his parchment eyelids fluttered and shut. Patsy had already got accustomed to this: he was agonizing, and his rare flashes of sanity revealed a manifestation of the soul leaving his limbs rather than the desire to stay on this earth for a little longer. No one wields the power to outwit death; if the scythe is hanging over your head, you are to comply with the taciturn order and follow the Grim Reaper into Eternity to meet Patty… Jane… little Polly… Probably he indeed was too attached to the world around, and needed to relinquish the viselike grip on his own life? He’s already done so much for this country that he deserves a respite – it is high time to let the younger generation manifest themselves and rectify the blunders their predecessors failed to fix. Their fresh approaches and new worldview will alter the country for the better, he didn’t doubt. Ha had to go even though he detested the whole idea of that. 

He agreed to go. He just wanted to see the dawn – and to inhale the scent, the air of the morning celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of the independence they so fiercely fought for. And every day he kept asking one and the same thing, hoping to hear a meek quiet ‘yes’ from his doting daughter and forego another concoction the doctor offered him to sip on – this sage from the world of science and medicine always shrugged when Patsy inquired – under her breath – if her Dad was to meet up the Fourth of July. A month was a long interim for such a feeble body of a man still daring talk to congressmen – although switching off, he refused to dismiss politics to the very last moment. He needed this day frenziedly: neither Monticello, his cherished mansion, nor the hot Virginian sun were to fulfill the yearning of an old man. This violin, the ruin of his younger years, was broken only for his fingers: the strings seemed either too tight or too loose to play, but the other ones, many more of them, far more talented and instrumental than they were, would come down the road and fix the creaking instrument to play a new melody of progress and democracy. 

Days passed. Thomas no longer woke up, not a word flew out of his dry thin lips: the only indication of life smoldering in him was shaky unsteady breath. Thomas Jefferson was alive. And he woke up in the evening of July, 3 – obviously urged by a bizarre power coming from within, the former President of the United States of America finally find the energy for the last dash. 

“Sir,” Dr. Dunglison brought a spoon of laudanum to the man’s mouth, “another dose of laudanum…” 

Jefferson looked around and shook his head, “No, doctor, nothing more…” 

He was aware of the life coming to a close: he had taken all the necessary precautions to make sure his last wish would be fulfilled, and still found it nearly impossible to leave this world with its everchanging hues and galvanic surprises. He had been building history, he had become a page in the textbook for generations from now on, and at the same time he couldn’t say goodbye. Was it all so mediocre? A man, who had written one of the most essential documents in American history, was to die peacefully – and tragically not living through the anniversary that soon became the entire meaning of his whole existence?.. 

“It is the Fourth, father,” Patsy whispered in low voice as if afraid to deafen him, “You can be calm now. It is the Fourth.” 

 

Miles away, John Adams was also saying his farewell to the cruel reality that once exalted him to the position of the President and then put under fire of heavy criticism. 

“Thomas Jefferson still survives,” he mumbled, not knowing that his friend had left this world a few hours before with a mild rejection of laudanum…


End file.
